


this long, low campaign

by emlof



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, M/M, Post-Time Skip, does anyone here know how to talk about their feelings, no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 03:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21008732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emlof/pseuds/emlof
Summary: Sylvain sighs once, deep, and his eyes flutter open. Felix doesn’t look away.He doesn’t look away, even as Sylvain’s gaze goes from sleepy and unseeing to clear and focused, slightly confused.“Felix. You’re staring,” Sylvain says, and his voice is rough with sleep but it still manages to hold the hint of a tease. “Is there something on my face?”Felix should snap back, should tell him,of course you have something on your face, none of us have bathed in days. You’re filthy, get away from me.But he doesn’t.Instead, he says: “I don’t remember what Glenn looks like, anymore. I can’t get his smile right.”





	this long, low campaign

The empire favors fire, as a rule. 

It’s tactically smart – creates a physical barrier, a diversion, an advantage for the defending army. Launched from a distance, it forces enemy troops to fall back, or find another route, or struggle through the flames and come out wounded and shaken before they even face another person in battle. 

Edelgard’s mages set the landscape ablaze, and even though Felix knows he’s almost certainly ridden through these plains before, the twisted, soot-stained landscape is unrecognizable. 

It’s disorienting, more than the thick smoke that chokes his lungs or the cries of unknown soldiers in the distance, the last vestiges of battle as it fades into night. 

Not that night is much different from the day – the plains emit a thick, heavy smoke as they burn, enough to blot out the sun overhead. 

They’ve set up tents, here in the relative safety of the back lines. But Felix knows from experience that they’ll be hot, stifling almost, air thick and stinking of sweat and smoke and dried blood, and he feels something twisting in his stomach at the thought of trying to sleep there. But after all the smoke the last thing he wants is to sleep by the fire, even if the wind is picking up in a way that promises a cold night. 

Instead, he drags his bedroll out, away from the rest of the group. He feels the professor’s eyes on him, but they don’t say anything, and when Felix looks back, daring them to intervene, they make no move to stop him. 

He settles on a spot under the open air, far enough from the group that their quiet chatter fades to murmurs, words he can’t make out over the ringing in his ears. He’d always thought he’d eventually get used to how _loud_ the battlefield is – the way the clang of swords echoes long after the strike, the localized thunder of lightning magic used at too-close range, the rushing in his ears as adrenaline kicks in and reflex takes over – but even after months, _years,_ there are still days when it’s too much. 

Away from the others, away from the bags under their eyes and the slumps of their shoulders and the way their voices are soft, so soft so they don’t reveal how hoarse they are – it could be peaceful, almost, if only for a moment. He thinks he’d be able to see the moon, if the smoke were less thick. 

Felix lets the tension ebb out of his shoulders, rolls out the stiffness with a slow stretch. They’re nearly to Enbarr, he thinks, but the days have blurred together, now. Who knows how long it’s been since they left the monastery – the landscape is burned beyond recognition, they could have been going in circles, laughed at by the Empress and her troops and they’d never know, he can’t see the stars to orient himself and the unending thickness of the clouds above him is making him feel sick—

The crunch of approaching footsteps breaks Felix from the quiet spiral of his thoughts. 

He tenses, reaches for the ever-present hum of dark magic beneath his skin even though he’s too tired to truly harm anyone. 

“I hope you’re not planning on launching that at me,” Sylvain says, a soft laugh in his voice. He’s hoarse, a telltale sign that he’s spent the day shouting commands to a battalion, holding desperately to some semblance of control over the chaos. But it’s a relief to hear him. 

“Maybe I should,” Felix says. “I’m trying to sleep.” 

“What a coincidence,” Sylvain hums. “So am I. Mind if I join you?” 

_“Yes,”_ Felix says, turning away with a huff. Sylvain sets down his bedroll anyways. “Sylvain—” 

“Don’t worry,” Sylvain says, “I’ll keep quiet. I just—” 

There’s something in his voice – something weary, strained, a little too close to breaking – and Felix suddenly knows, bone-deep, that he doesn’t want to know how that sentence ends. He turns over to face Sylvain again, interrupting him.

“Oh, alright,” he says, as if it’s a burden, as if he’s been put-upon. “But if you kick me that’s the end of it.” 

Sylvain’s smile is tight, barely visible in the low light of fires burning in the distance – but there’s something like relief around the edges that neither of them acknowledge.

“Goddess, but it’s freezing out here, Felix,” Sylvain says, instead of trying to explain, “why are you so far from the fire, anyways?” 

Felix doesn’t respond. There’s no way Sylvain is actually cold – the night may be brisk but it’s nothing compared to a winter night in Gautier territory, and they both know it. But Sylvain has always been a nervous talker, though he’d never admit it. 

“I thought you were going to keep quiet,” Felix starts, but then—

“I really am cold,” Sylvain insists, lifting his cloak up and scooting close enough to drape it over both himself and Felix with one smooth movement, and before Felix can absorb what’s happening there’s a warm fur across his shoulders and Sylvain is pressed against him, an arm snaking across his shoulders. Sylvain has always been bigger than him, and the heavy weight of him keeps Felix pinned in place, even when he squirms against the sudden contact. 

“You’re _not—"_ Felix is about ready to elbow him when he realizes that Sylvain’s arm, wrapped too-tight around his shoulder, is shaking – or maybe it’s Felix who’s trembling. Pressed so close it’s hard to tell, and the realization that he didn’t _know,_ hadn’t _noticed_—

All of the fight goes out of him, then, and he rests his head against Sylvain’s chest with a sigh. 

Sylvain, who’s forgotten his charm, for once, who can’t seem to find the words for whatever it is he’s trying to say – Felix can feel his jaw working, mouth opening and closing as he takes tiny, hitching breaths and clings to Felix, hard, as if he can’t believe he’s really there unless he’s holding on to him. Something must have happened during the fight, Felix thinks absently. 

Or maybe nothing happened, maybe it’s just the buildup, the awful accumulation of tension and hypervigilance and the awareness, always, that someone they love could be dying across the battlefield and they wouldn’t know, not then, not for hours. 

Felix doesn’t ask, either way.

He wakes in the middle of the night to Sylvain’s breath hot against his neck. The heat of him, pleasantly warm before, is smoldering now where the long line of his body presses against Felix’s chest, halfway to being on top of him. Felix worms his way out from beneath the most suffocating of Sylvain’s weight and flops onto his back. 

There’s a fierce wind overhead; it’s blown away the smoke for a rare glimpse of the sky. The stars are still there, somehow, familiar constellations shining clear in the distance. 

There are gods in the sky, or so the legend goes. He wonders if they’re watching, or if they’ve turned away so as not to witness the carnage. 

How many times have they watched wars play out, Felix wonders, and do they all look the same from such a distance? Do they see the human faces beneath it all, the buildup and spilling over that comes before, or just the end result? 

Do they see the way Sylvain takes another choked breath next to him and unconsciously tightens his old on Felix’s shoulders, near desperate even in sleep? Do they see _him,_ unable to do anything about it, unable to do anything about the way Dimitri still mutters to himself as he paces the monastery at night and the way Ingrid clings ever tighter to her misplaced chivalric ideals, like they’ll save her, the way Annette doesn’t sing anymore and the way Ashe’s voice wavers like he doesn’t believe himself when he talks about the glories of ancient knights, and, and, and—

Do they see how he freezes, helpless, do they judge him for it? Do they know how _angry_ he is? 

Felix scrubs a hand over his face, trying to press back the surge of childish embarrassment at his foolish thoughts – ridiculous, to even wonder such a thing. They don’t, of course. They don’t see anything.

He’d thought getting a glimpse of the sky after so long might help, but that, too, was foolish – it’s not the smoke at the root of his troubles, after all. He tears his gaze from the heavens, brings himself back to earth and the way Sylvain is still pressed close, shaking ever so slightly in his sleep. Another pang of that directionless fury sears through him, but he forces it down, swallows around the choking sensation of too-big emotions in his throat. Anger isn’t what either of them need, right now.

The moon is nearly full, bathing their camp in pale light. As his eyes adjust, Felix can see Sylvain’s features better, the soot smeared across his cheek and flecks of something – blood, probably – splattered across his temple. Even in sleep his brow is furrowed, and Felix just barely stops himself from giving into the temptation to smooth it. 

He’s shared a bed with Sylvain before. When they were children, visiting each other’s territories, they had regularly huddled beneath a blanket, whispering secrets, making promises they should have known better than to speak aloud, should have known would be near-impossible to keep. On winter missions in their academy days, when Sylvain inevitably forgot his sleeping pad and wheedled his way into sharing with Felix because none of the girls would have him. During the war, even, when the nights were truly cold and quarters were cramped.

It’s never felt this way before – never felt so urgent, so _important,_ he’s never felt like he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sylvain’s face if he tried. 

Sylvain sighs once, deep, and his eyes flutter open. Felix doesn’t look away. 

He doesn’t look away, even as Sylvain’s gaze goes from sleepy and unseeing to clear and focused, slightly confused.

“Felix. You’re staring,” Sylvain says, and his voice is rough with sleep but it still manages to hold the hint of a tease. “Is there something on my face?” 

Felix should snap back, should tell him, _of course you have something on your face, none of us have bathed in days. You’re filthy, get away from me._

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he says: “I don’t remember what Glenn looks like, anymore. I can’t get his smile right.”

The teasing edge drops from Sylvain’s smile, and he watches uncertainly, waiting for Felix to continue. 

“I don’t ever want that to happen to you. That’s all.” It’s too honest, he realizes the moment he says it. 

It’s quiet, for a moment. Felix can feel the heat rising on his face, wants to reach out and snatch the words back out of the air. Too much. Too genuine, too close to the _truth_—

Sylvain’s fingers are calloused from his lance, rough against the soft skin at the inside of Felix’s wrist where he grabs it. He doesn’t say a word, just guides their joined hands towards his face without breaking eye contact. His cheek is warm beneath Felix’s palm, and he can almost certainly feel the way Felix shudders at the contact, a full-body betrayal. But he stays silent, just watches carefully, his hand still pressed over Felix’s own. 

The grip around Felix’s wrist is loose, careful, feather-light. Sylvain is giving him a way out, if it gets to be too much. He doesn’t take it. 

“I don’t understand,” Sylvain breathes, almost inaudible. “It’s like you’re mourning me already, but I’m still here. I’m right here, Felix.”

There’s a terrible weight in Felix’s chest. He can’t breathe around it, certainly can’t form anything like _words._ Sylvain just watches. 

Felix tightens his grip, grounding himself with the pressure on Sylvain’s cheek. It can’t be comfortable – probably even hurts. Selfishly, Felix hopes that it does, hopes Sylvain will feel a lingering soreness the next day and that the tender skin will give him pause, remind him that he has something to be careful for, something to come back to.

There’s something tight and fragile in his chest, closer to shattering with every breath, and though he’s sure it’s playing out across his face Felix can’t seem to find his composure. The heat of Sylvain’s cheek burns electric beneath his skin, the same hum of dangerous energy he feels in the Levin sword he wields day after day. 

His thumb is moving of its own volition, tracing Sylvain’s features, pressing just a little too hard, and Sylvain’s grip around his wrist tightens but he makes no move to stop him. It feels like they’re suspended there, frozen in time, although Felix knows it’s only been a moment.

When Sylvain opens his mouth it’s with every intention of speaking the awful truth, Felix can _feel_ it, sees the open honesty in Sylvain’s eyes, the way his breath is shallow and hesitant, just enough air to let the words spill from his mouth before they can put their masks back on. 

“Felix, I—“

“Don’t,” Felix breathes, barely a whisper. “Not until after. If something happened, and you— I couldn’t—“ 

He breaks off. 

“Just. Stay alive, Sylvain. Stay alive, and tell me after it’s all over.” 

He’s being selfish and he knows it. But Sylvain, of all people, should be able to understand that, at least. 

Sylvain takes a slow breath, and for one gut-wrenching moment Felix thinks he’s going to say it anyways. 

“Do you remember when I got that fever?” he asks, instead.

Felix does. It’s not something you forget, one of the most terrifying weeks of your childhood. He nods, unsure where Sylvain is going. 

“My parents – they hired a nurse, and visited when they could, and that was enough for them. Miklan—” there’s a twist in his voice, hurting even now– “he didn’t even look at me.”

Sylvain pauses, takes a ragged breath. “I don’t remember much, honestly. But—” 

“Sylvain—” 

“Let me finish, Felix, _please_—” and when he asks like that, how can Felix possible say no? “I don’t remember much, but I remember _you._ You, there, every time I woke up. And after, too, even now. Every time—” he pauses, jaw working beneath Felix’s hand as he starts, stops, starts again. 

“You’re always there, when I wake up,” Sylvain says, and Felix draws a sharp breath. 

“That’s not true and you know it,” he hisses, because saying anything else would be too close to an admission. “Don’t say such ridiculous things.” 

Sylvain’s face is unreadable. “It _is,_ though. I mean—” another pause, uncomfortably long, and he looks Felix right in the eyes. “I mean, when I need—you’re always there.” 

“Stop,” Felix says, and he’d be embarrassed by his near-begging if he weren’t so desperate for Sylvain to be quiet, so desperate for Sylvain to let him pretend the earth hasn’t shifted beneath both of them, tonight. “I mean it, Sylvain—” 

“No one else has ever done _anything_ like that for me, Fee,” he whispers, and Felix can tell he’s being genuine because he suddenly won’t make eye contact, his gaze keeps sliding upwards, to the stars. “And I don’t think they ever will. Just you. It’s only ever been you.” 

And damn, Felix thinks, if he hasn’t managed to say it anyways. There’s something prickling behind his eyes. He wishes Sylvain would look away. 

“Damn you, Sylvain, I told you to shut _up,_” Felix chokes, fisting his free hand tight in Sylvain’s shirt, and there’s a version of this moment, he knows, where Felix pulls Sylvain towards him, crushes their mouths together angrily despite the awkward angle, traps both their hands between their cheeks, a version where he bites Sylvain’s lip and feels a rush of satisfaction at the surprised noise Sylvain makes against him, and at the faint taste of blood in his mouth—

But Felix has always been a coward.

“If you die – I’ll forget you. I’ll forget your face, and I won’t forgive you for it,” he says, instead, knowing it’s cruel but unable to stop himself. “I’ll hate you, if you do that to me.” 

And Sylvain, because he’s always been too kind, too understanding, too _good—_ Sylvain huffs out a laugh, as if Felix hasn’t just said something awful, as if they both haven’t been more honest than they should. 

“You won’t forget,” he murmurs, jaw shifting under Felix’s fingers. “I won’t give you the chance.” 

“Good,” Felix says, trying to conjure something resembling a biting tone and failing miserably. “See that you don’t.” 

Sylvain smiles at him entirely too fondly, continuing like Felix hasn’t said a word. “Besides, we made a promise – I haven’t forgotten. It’s not one I plan on breaking.” 

“Fine, then,” Felix says, and rolls over because if he has to look at Sylvain even a moment longer all the horrible too-honest things ballooning in his chest and making it hard to breathe are bound to come spilling out of him. “I’m going back to sleep.” 

He feels it when Sylvain laughs again, a soft puff of air against his neck. And when Sylvain moves closer, when he tucks Felix against his chest and pulls his great warm cloak over the both of them again, he leans back into the touch.

Sylvain is the first to leave, in the morning. Felix wonders if he’s meant to say something, make some sort of grand gesture, but in the end he just looks on, silent, as Sylvain readies his horse.

“I’ll be seeing you, then,” he finally settles on, a demand, an attempt to secure one last promise. 

Sylvain looks him in the eyes, and for once Felix doesn’t look away. “Yeah,” he says, and Felix almost believes him. “You will.”

Felix watches him go, watches the way he doesn’t look back. Felix watches, and watches, and watches, watches until Sylvain is indistinguishable from the rest of the cavalry and even after that, and wills it to be true.

**Author's Note:**

> y'all this game is ruining my life. it's turned me into a wild animal. im on twitter @eemlof. thank you for reading. im going to go scream into a pillow abt the lions for a while longer, now.
> 
> (title is from 'after the bombs' by the decemberists which i listened to approximately one hundred times while writing this)


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